


The Science of Devotion

by TheScienceofDevotion



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Benedict Cumberbatch - Freeform, Child Abuse, Crossover, Half-blood Prince Era, Harry Potter - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, MxM - Freeform, Physical Abuse, Potterlock, Potterlock AU, Sherlock - Freeform, abuse tw, martin freeman - Freeform, sherlock bbc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-07 19:31:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3180530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheScienceofDevotion/pseuds/TheScienceofDevotion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Sherlock's sixth year at Hogwarts and he's been looking forwards to graduating and getting away from people for a long time. With their new timetables for the year, he finds himself stuck next to an irritatingly stupid, blond Gryffindor, who happens to be in the popular ranks of the school. There are many things the clever teen can predict, can read off of people. What he can't read is his own infatuation. And he'll never know of it until it slams him hard in the chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little thing to say; this work is told from the perspective of both John and Sherlock. Also, it does involve most of the original characters, and some of the things with Voldemort's rise to power may come up, but it mainly focuses on life at Hogwarts. 
> 
> Cheers, Sarah :)

He didn’t mind counting the scars on his hand in the morning, when his fingers could brush over the faint lumps of puckered skin in the dark. _Broken glass,_ he remembered, tracing a particularly long one on his left hand. The teenage boy lay in bed still, looking up at the ceiling of his little bedroom, his eyes kept open by the throbbing pulse of his body. Oh, it hurt to feel. It hurt so, so much.

Curling up his hands into fists, he slipped them under the sheets again. Instantly, he felt something lift off him; a relief that he didn’t need to gaze upon their hideous patterns any longer. Brack was motionless in his cage. The owl wasn’t the most active of all creatures, John had noticed, but at least he listened the boy out, without judging him. That was the thing, about owls. Some had a piercing stare, that told you they understood and were formulating opinions on you. His friend’s owl did that sometimes. But to other people; she was too kind to do it to anyone around her whom she knew. Other owls were simply incapable of judging you. Brack was neutral; all he did was give people kind nibbles on their fingers. He was a very, very gentle animal, besides being very slow and pompous. Errol, the Weasleys’ owl, John had concluded, was simply too stupid to think. He couldn’t even distinguish the difference between a dirty window and air.

 

_One more day_ , John thought to himself, and a faint smile settled itself upon his lips. Just one more day, and it would begin again; another exciting year at Hogwarts. The grin faded away immediately as he winced, and the pain returned. On impulse, John lifted a hand to his eye, gingerly tracing the cut there. He didn’t know how many more times he’d be doing that until it actually healed. Hopefully Madam Pomfrey would have something up her sleeve for things like that. John knew he was probably being pathetic, but it really did hurt.

When he was still an ignorant ‘muggle,’ John would come home on Friday just before dinnertime with bleeding or scabbed knees from rugby practice. He still had his old uniform from St. Evans’ Preparatory School. In fact, the green jersey still hung over his wardrobe. _Watson, 21._ It read. John had always been so proud of that; but the strange things had started happening when he was ten. Thank goodness he’d only had to wait for a year until _his_ letter came.

John sat up suddenly, his pulse shooting up, as he heard the front door slam shut. Uneven footsteps followed. John barely breathed as he hid himself underneath the sheets. It was Harry, no doubt, and she was drunk. The fact that she was his stepsister didn’t make it any better. His watch beeped. John checked it; 1:00am. Was it really that early? John yawned softly. Perhaps, once he was absolutely sure his stepfather was asleep, he’d send Brack off to the Weasleys’ place. It was unfortunate he didn’t know the spell to muffle any noise he made. Then he could let Brack go without a problem. It was also a shame he was still underage for magic use out of Hogwarts, but perhaps he could try and find the spell for future reference in one of the many school books he kept in his trunk, under his bed. As thrilling as it sounded, John really couldn’t be bothered to go through stacks of material for just one spell. It would be useful if the Wizarding world had a google. He could ask Hermione for the spell. She’d know, wouldn’t she?

Feeling hot, John allowed the sheets to uncover his face. The fresh air of his room was welcome as it passed over his damp brow. Breathing heavily, the boy tried to force his pulse to slow down, to just let him sleep. He stiffened upon hearing several thumping sounds from his sister’s room, but they soon abated, and he was left in silence again. A welcome thing, in which human noise was absent. Only Brack was fully awake, moving about in his cage and flapping his dark wings. John rolled over on his side to look at him as he tried picking at the lock on the door of the cage. With a deep sigh, John drummed his fingers statically on the side of his bed. “I know, Brack,” he murmured to the owl, who went on to ignore him. “I’ll let you go soon. I promise.” Perhaps he should send him off now. Yes, that would be best.

Dragging himself out of bed, John seated himself at his desk, trying to be quiet. Reaching into a drawer of his desk, he pulled out a Muggle notebook, and flipped through it to find some unsolved math problems from his fifth year at St Evans’. Shaking his head, John ripped out an empty page in one swift movement, wincing at the sound. The fourth ballpoint pen he picked up actually worked, and then be began to write to Ron.

 

> _Hey Ron,_
> 
> _How’s your summer been? I know that’s quite a stupid question, but I have the feeling most of us spent a summer in fear. There’ve been rumors of parents saying they don’t want their children returning to Hogwarts… nevertheless, I’m definitely excited for a new year. Have you heard from Hermione  at all? She hasn’t sent me a single owl throughout the summer. Is she already at the Burrow with you? She told me at the end of last year that she’d be going there at some point before school started again.  I miss you, and send Brack back. Pigwig destroyed my lamp last time. I don’t know how that little ball of fluff can possibly have so much energy._
> 
> _All the best,_
> 
> _John_

 

Hurriedly, John folded up the sheet of paper, sealed it with a piece of tape, and picked up the key of Brack’s cage. The owl flapped its wings in an excited manner upon realising that its freedom from this abominable cage was close. John slid his fingers through the bars and grabbed Brack’s beak before he squawked. “ _Shut up,_ ” he hissed, an annoyed form on his face. John really didn’t want this to be the moment his entire family woke up because he was letting Brack free. The bird understood and stopped its flurry of feathers and hyperness. John let go of Brack’s beak and quickly opened the lock, setting it aside quietly before opening the door.

Without a second’s worth of hesitation, Brack hopped onto John’s bare arm, his claws digging into the boy’s skin. John plucked him off himself and set Brack down onto the table, where the owl stilled, allowing John to tie the message to Brack’s leg. John knew his pet was smart enough to carry the message with his beak, but Brack had been cooped up for so long and would probably end up pecking at something along the way. The line of communication between Ron and John had been so slim over this particular summer that John wasn’t willing to take any chances. Besides, he was hoping Molly would be eager to have him over at the Burrow, away from this territorial hellhole of a home. John tugged the window open as far as he dared himself. “The Burrow,” he whispered to Brack. The owl slipped its way out through the window. With a deep sigh, John watched as Brack melted into the night.

 

When he lay down again, he felt more alone than ever, and he hoped Ron would write back soon. He hated it that he hadn’t heard much from Hermione. Sometimes, he frowned upon it with some annoyance, almost as if he was being forgotten, but most of the time, John just told himself they probably had other things to worry about. By now, the Ministry of Magic was at unrest, putting both the stakes Wizarding World and the Muggle World on the line.

John ached to get his hands onto a copy of the Daily Prophet, to see what on earth was going on at the moment. The Dark Lord was getting stronger; of that he was absolutely certain. John’s hand instinctively went up to touch the scar on his forehead. As soon as he touched it, he winced and puled back, wiping his fingers on the bed sheets in an attempt to clean them somewhat as nausea overtook him. No, this was something much, much bigger than anything else. Just for reassurance, John picked his wand up from his bedside table and slipped it underneath the pillow, the stick of Holly and Phoenix Feather in a tight grip as his head fell back onto the bed. Sickened, John closed his eyes, and willed his body to shut down, but his eyes still moved behind his eyelids in a frenzy of static movement. He hated it how he was the one. The Chosen One. Confronting Voldemort would be no easy thing, and would require a hell lot of nerves and guts, and bravery, too, probably. Sure, he was a Gryffindor, but since when did Houses matter when it came to facing the power-hungry psychopath out there?

 

John fell asleep at last, the unsettling thought still hanging around like a never-ending buzz at the back of his mind. The land of dreams was no longer a sugar-coated fantasy like it had been before his acceptance letter. He just hoped that the visions would lay low this time. And everything would be so much easier that way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nice night at the Weasleys. John is looking forwards to returning to school and to the Wizarding World.

“What in Merlin’s Beard happened to _your_ handwriting over the summer?” Ron queried, and he snorted at the sight of the blond boy. “It’s awful.” They were standing in front of the Burrow, where Dumbledore had just apparated John into the marshes before vanishing. John pulled a face as he waded over to his friend, his sneakers making disgusting squelching noises as he stepped onto the firm grass. “Oh, don’t be such a wuss, it’s only water.”

“You’re one to talk. I’d like to see your face if I push you in,” John grumbled, and undid his sopping laces, taking off his shoes right there. Ron simply laughed and told him to hurry up. The redhead turned his back and took the lead, so just for spite, John wrapped his hands around the sole-side of his shoes and slammed the gross, wet side onto Ron’s hair. Brown water dotted with little bits of black sediment tricked down Ron’s nape, and he made a grimace. “What the bloody hell was that for?”

“It was a hello.” John answered. “Now you know how I feel.”

“Oi, don’t blame me! Dumbledore’s the loony man who placed you in a bloody swamp, not me!” But a grin lit up Ron’s eyes, and he shoved John.

John laughed. “Guess you’ll have to wash your hair again, shuck face.”

Ron appeared unphased as he dragged John towards to burrow, where Mrs. Weasley stood, hands on her hips, waiting for them to get inside. “Dinner’ll be ready soon, you two. You can go and get yourselves cleaned up.” She said sternly, but dealt John a soft enough smile.

Ron led his friend up to the topmost floor of the Burrow, where the room they usually slept in was situated. Ron was running his fingers through his hair, smearing the dirt all over the red strands without realizing it. “I dibs the shower first,” Ron said the moment they stepped over the threshold and into the room. “You can put your disgusting shoes in there. Mum’ll take care of your clothes and stuff later.”

John set his shoes down in a pail of water to let them soak out. “Thanks,” he said, and watched Ron disappear into the adjacent room.

Ron took his time in the shower, and emerged at last to find John shivering in the room, the cold water beginning to seep through into him. He finished tying his bathrobe around his waist and gave an embarrassed grin. "Sorry, mate. Your turn."

John punched him lightly in the shoulder and walked stiffly to the bathroom. He winced from the cold as he peeled his jeans off, only to pause and look at his dirtied hands that were about to curl around the hem of his jumper. Maybe not, he thought. He wound the tap open with his wrists, rinsed his hands clean, and proceeded to strip. John didn't bother folding up his clean things; Mrs Weasley had made it a habit of taking all his laundry the moment he got here and to set it to clean itself. Gingerly, John stepped into the wet tub. Lukewarm water had pooled at the bottom, but he curled his toes at the little warmth it brought to them. He reached out and turned the shower on hot, and let out a soft moan of relief as the water splashed out warm onto his chest. It was wonderful. John arched his neck to the water, letting it dribble its way over his body, and he felt the flush rising to his cheeks again, the numbness leaving his fingers. He ran his fingers through his blonde hair, and rinsed and shampooed it thoroughly. John embraced the heat and closed his eyes. A shout snapped him out of his reverie; he'd been in here longer than he thought. It was Mrs Weasley.

  
"Boys! Dinner!"  
"Oi! John, hurry up."  
"Coming," John replied. He dried off quickly with a spare towel and tiptoed his way out of the bathroom and over to his trunk. Someone had cleaned the floor and already laid out his pyjamas for him. Mrs Weasley the ought about everything. He made sure Ron had closed the door and turned his back as he changed into his warm pyjamas. He could do with some dinner.

 

The boys were intercepted on the stairs as the twins apparated in front of them. Ron nearly went tumbling down the stairs in his shock, but John helped him steady himself again. Ron brushed his arm and scowled. “Bloody hell!” He snapped.

George grinned. “We were just here-”

“To say hello-” continued Fred.

“To that little rascal next to you,” they said together. John snorted.

“Is that funny?” Fred added, glaring teasingly at John.

“I-”

“Oh, shove off,” Ron muttered. “ _Move_!” He said, and pushed his way past them, pulling John along with him. The twins disapparated, and Ron rolled his eyes. “Bloody arses.” He said, and John chuckled.

“Mum!” Fred and George hollered to Mrs Weasley once they were seated with Ron and John, “I think Ronny’s got a stick up his arse.”

“And a mouldy one at that-” Fred continued.

“Full of termites-”

Ron took the liberty of balling up his napkin and flinging it at George’s face. “Shut up.”

“Alright, alright, boys, settle down.” Arthur appeared and sat himself down, offering John a smile. “Evening, John.”

“Evening, Mr. Weasley.” John said.

Molly had been busying herself in the kitchen, and appeared at the same time with Ginny, who had been helping out. Ginny’s hair was damp and hung in loose copper strands. She smiled coyly at John as she sat down next to the twins. “Hi, John.”

“Hi, Ginny,” he answered warmly. The food smelled delicious. Dinner was a lively matter at the Weasleys’ place, and John felt more at home here than ever before in his Muggle parents’ place. From now, he thought, everything could only go upwards. Hogwarts after-tomorrow. School would start, they’d get  new timetables, and see everyone again; Hermione, Seamus, Dean, Neville… And Quidditch. John missed Quidditch most of all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hogwarts Express; September the 1st has finally come!

Yesterday was Mycroft’s funeral. Well, not really, but Sherlock had treated his departure as so. He had stood on the same train platform, only the younger boy was garbed in formal black as he tried his best not to cry. Everything would go downhill for him from here; as much as he sometimes hated Mycroft for saying he was more intelligent, or when he yelled at Sherlock for nicking all his action-men and Smurf figurines when they were much, much younger.

Sherlock considered graduating to be the end of an era, which it was, really. But he didn’t want Mycroft to go, even though he would be heading off to the Ministry of Magic to continue working. When he had received the acceptance form, everyone had been so jovial. All except Sherlock Holmes. Phrases and quotes which took root deep in the very fabric of life rose to his mind, and not one of them was not about something falling down, protection failing, losing the war. Because that was what was happening. He was losing the war, and he had no shield, only a knife of intellect, and that was not enough alone to win a fight. Sherlock knew it. And he knew this year would be the hardest of all.

 

Sherlock Holmes stood on the train platform with his parents, his trunk at his feet. Though the boy would never admit it, he was scared. Usually, his brother would be beside him, all dressed up just like he was, with a similar case containing all of his belongings that he would need for the year. But this year, Mycroft Holmes’ presence was but a ghost next to his brother, telling him to be strong this year. Sherlock wasn’t facing Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, but rather the railway line. There came a whistling from the gendarmes as they waved everybody backwards over the yellow lines that marked the proximity boundaries of the railway on Platform Nine and three-quarters. Sherlock remained glued on his little spot, both his feet planted on the line, his blue eyes unblinking, back ramrod straight, features focused. One of the security men walked over to him. “Sorry,” he said, bending down somewhat to look into the sixteen-year-old’s extraordinary heterochromic eyes. “Would you mind stepping back a little?” He asked in a thick southern British accent. “Don’t want the train to run you over.”

“I’m sorry for the loss of your cat,” Sherlock replied in a little solemn murmur.

“Oh-” he cleared his throat. “Thank you, I know. Just disappeared, like th-” He frowned. “Hang on, how did you know that?”

“I simply observed.”

“Right, okay. Now, do you mind stepping back a little?” When the boy made no answer, Elaine Holmes stepped forwards and took her son in her arms before pulling him backwards. The man gave her a grateful smile as he picked up Sherlock’s trunk and placed it next to the boy. “Thank you, sir.” She said. “Sherlock, next time, you do as you’re told, understand?” She chided her son.

“Yes, mother.”

A low whistle that could only come from a steam train filled the whole of the Victorian-styled red brick platform. Several new faces gave hushed whispers and turned to watch the black and gold train appear. Sherlock was beginning to wonder what he would do during the long train-ride, without Mycroft to keep him distracted or to talk to him, without Mycroft’s money to buy them a packet of mint humbugs, without Mycroft there to tell Jim and his little band to “back off and find another compartment.”

He stepped into the last train compartment, the final student on board, and seated himself next to the window, cramming himself up in the corner there, his elbow resting on the sill of the windows as he looked down upon the parents and older siblings, looking, searching for Mycroft amidst the crowd that waved handkerchiefs and wept. He murmured the word of begging against his knuckles with soft lips, like a prayer. _There._ There he was, all properly dressed with his beige suite and tie, just like when he tried it out the day he received the approval form. Mycroft. _Mycroft!_ He wanted to yell it, wanted to wave at his brother, but he could not, not even as the train began to roll from the station. He couldn’t wave goodbye to his parents. Not to his brother.

 

Sherlock raised but one hand in farewell as everyone disappeared, to be replaced by red brick walls, and only then did he feel the regret. What if he had just given Mycroft more reason to go? The fact that he had returned today made everything seem better. But soon, the regret dissipated as he realized Mycroft hadn’t been there; his ghost had been a figment of Sherlock’s imagination. He hadn’t returned. He hadn’t changed his mind. And he was never coming back.

 

The compartment door swung open, and Sherlock readied himself for another volley of insults to come his way. Perhaps a fist or two. But none came, and he looked around to see three people his age, two boys and a girl, standing there. “I didn’t know this one wasn’t empty,” the red-haired boy said.

“Shall we go somewhere else?” The blonde said.

Sherlock looked away, already losing interest in them.

“Oh, for heavens’ sake,” the girl hissed, pushing her way past her two friends. She sat down opposite the dark-haired boy, offering him a gentle smile which he did not return.

“If you’re going to fool around, you can go sit with Draco, John.” She said stiffly.

The blonde gave a grumble and sat himself down haphazardly next to the girl. “There is no way in hell that’s happening.”

“Good. Then you can stop complaining.” The girl answered. The redhead huffed and sat down next to Sherlock, who ignored him.

Sherlock got out a book, and started reading. It would be better, that way. He didn’t need to interact with anyone, and they didn’t need to get to know him. He took some comfort in knowing they were not very fond of Draco and his band of cronies, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t hate him. They were Gryffindors, too, he noted. He remembered them sitting together once at the Gryffindor table at breakfast. It clicked, then. John. John Watson, captain of their Quidditch Team, and Ron Weasley. Hermione Granger, then. That was the name of the girl. Thinking of that made him feel incredibly self-conscious. He didn’t want to be in their vicinity. He didn’t _qualify_ for it. Sherlock buried his nose into his book.

 

Ron looked at the boy next to him and scrutinized him for a moment. “I’m Ron Weasley.” He said, and extended a hand.

Sherlock didn’t take the hand. He didn’t even look up. “I know.”

John and Hermione exchanged a look. The former simply shook his head and shrugged. They didn’t talk much for the rest of the ride there. John simply sat back in his seat, his eyes often flickering towards the boy, and couldn’t help admiring those sharp cheekbones. But he drifted off and dreamed of Quidditch, and not of the strange boy sitting across from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thank you so much for reading this this far! <3 Just a quick note to say updates will be slower from now on. School is catching up.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year is now in motion, and Horace Slughorn's students compete for the little vial of Felix that only one person will receive.

As usual, the feast in the great hall was a grandiose affair, accompanied with plenty of clapping, talking and, of course, the voice of the sorting hat before the plates before the students filled up with food. As usual, it was quite the opposite for Sherlock Holmes. Nobody talked to him, so he kept to himself, choosing to eat at the corner furthest from the teachers’ table. The noise of it all triggered the beginnings of a pulsing headache, and he felt his throat clog up. He wished Mycroft were here. Though his brother had been in Slytherin, Sherlock always knew Mycroft would be looking out for him, so he never worried too much about feeling alone or lost, and especially not at the feast. Sherlock kept his eyes glued to his plate, and forced some food down, though it made him queasy.

        

Once Professor Dumbledore dismissed the students, he was one of the first to flee from the main hall. The answer to the brass knockers’ riddle escaped his mouth before he thought about it properly, and the door swung open to let him into the common room. He could hear footsteps through the door. Other Ravenclaw students would be coming up too. Without hesitation, Sherlock ran to the boys’ dorm, where he changed into his pyjamas, making it quick, and then slunk into his bed.

A pitiful mewling sound made him look up from the Advanced Potions book he was reading. Sherlock frowned, and then got out of bed, guilt consuming him. Reaching under his bed, he pulled out a wicker cage containing a black cat, which was the source of the sound. For the first time that day, he smiled softly, and opened up the cage. “Hello, Bradbury,” he murmured, stroking the cat between the ears. It evaded his hand after licking his fingers, and pounced onto Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock crawled back underneath the covers and allowed the animal to curl up into a little furry ball on his lap. Sherlock’s long fingers threaded their way through the soft fur. He could feel Bradbury’s throat vibrations as he purred, could sense his heartbeat, and it comforted the boy immensely. To be at peace with something alive in this tumultuous world was the only thing that mattered to Sherlock for the moment.

Hopefully Bradbury would always be there to  help him through the school year. Sherlock hated how dependent he had been on other people to keep him alive and sane. Had never really liked anyone that much, but his family had always been there. Before Hogwarts, here was his mum and dad. At this school, he had Mycroft. And now… Bradbury would have to be enough. Cradling Bradbury to his chest and making sure he wouldn’t be jolted about when Sherlock moved, the boy reached over to grab his wand as other students began to file into the dormitory. Sherlock put the instrument under his pillow and rolled onto his side, placing his book aside. Bradbury purred and closed his eyes, content, and Sherlock curled a protective arm around him, pulling the blankets over them both.

     

Classes began the following day. Sherlock scraped his way through the boring, endless lecturing of his teachers. Potions was his last lesson of the day, and by the time he had dragged himself to class and sat down, he was regretting having not hidden himself away in a box back at home. The rest of the class filed in, followed by professor Slughorn, and thus began the potions class. Slughorn called the class up to the front to identify the several different potions he had brewed for them earlier. Sherlock had recognized every single one the moment he had entered the classroom. Once Slughorn asked them to name the potions, Sherlock was tempted to just blurt out the name of every single one, its purpose, and what it did to the drinker. _Don’t be smart, Sherlock, keep to yourself, and you’ll have less problems._ Mycroft’s warnings came flooding back to the younger boy, and so he pushed down his unmatchable ego and let Hermione answer Slughorn. He paid little attention to the lesson as Hermione identified Polyjuice Potion, and several others, ending with Amortentia, the love potion. Several of the girls leaned forwards to get a better look at it, but Sherlock slid his narrow stare over to the cauldron with a raised brow, disapproval and disinterest clouding his features.

Sherlock’s attention was, however, revived as Slughorn held up a tiny vial full of a golden potion. “And this?” He said, shaking it lightly. Sherlock couldn’t hold it in anymore. He didn’t really care, now. “Felix Felicis,” he said, beating Hermione to it. “Or, more commonly known as Liquid Luck. Upon being consumed, it will make the drinker lucky, for a certain amount of time, depending on the amount taken in. Felix Felicis is one of the most difficult potions to ever brew; disastrous effects can follow should one brew it wrong.” He barely paused. “A dose like the one in that vial would last for about twelve hours and forty minutes, I should say. Additionally, it is a common belief that real gold is included in the making of Liquid Luck, which gives it its colour. That is a misconception. The gold colour is a result of light diffusion within each droplet of the substance, and not a result of using Au. The actual potion’s colour is, disappointingly, somewhat the colour of diluted, yellow bromine water. The jumping of the droplets above the surface mirror the euphoric feeling of taking this potion.” Sherlock, finished, stepped back slightly, suddenly feeling rather self-conscious as all eyes looked his direction.

Even Hermione looked impressed; so did Slughorn. “That is entirely correct, and well done, Mr….”

“Holmes,” Sherlock answered, the sound coming out as a bit of a deflated phonetic.

“Now, then,” Slughorn continued, turning back towards the class, “I offer one vial of Liquid Luck to the person who manages to brew me the best draught of living dead.”

 

Sherlock flipped his potions book open. _The Draught of Living Death brings upon its drinker a very powerful sleep that can last indefinitely. This draught is very dangerous if not used with caution ... This is an extremely dangerous potion. Execute with maximum caution,_ he read. Sherlock worked with calm precision at his potion, all of Mycroft’s warnings leaving him entirely. He didn’t care for the minuscule vial of Felix, but rather to prove himself clever. At last, something interesting to do. The curly-haired boy calculated every ingredient with accuracy, adding in the infusion of Wormwood first. His shabby copy of ‘Advanced Potion-Making’ lay beside him, open. Hundreds of inked in scribbles in an elegant script lines the pages. It was Mycroft’s old potions book the school had given him last year in order for the elder Holmes to continue potions after his other book had gone up in an accidental fire set off during one of Mycroft’s transfigurations classes.

With a silver dagger, he crushed his Sopophorous beans, letting the greenish-looking juice trail its way down the blade of his knife. Sherlock added in all the ingredients one after the other, and ended the entire thing with seven turns anti-clockwise, and one more clockwise turn. Sherlock's hand shot up and Professor Slughorn called the competition to an end a few minutes later, once the timer was up.

He made the entire class line up at the front whilst he inspected every single potion. "Mr. Finnigan, I suggest you be a little more careful with the heating of your potion," Horace commented, lightly, as he passed Seamus' cauldron. Seamus glowered at the floor, his hair a frizz, as a few friendly chuckles accompanied the remark. "Mr Malfoy, not bad." That earned Draco a few whoops from the Slytherins. "Miss Granger, remarkable." He shot a smile at Hermione, who looked very pleased with herself. "Oh, better luck next time, Mr. Weselbey." A few sniggers. "And Mr. Moriarty." He smiled down at the potion. "Very much near-perfect." Then to John’s. Horace raised a slight brow as he tested the potion with a small leaf, just as he had done with every other person’s. At last, he moved on to Sherlock's, and passed it without comment, before addressing the entire class as a whole again.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes, please come forwards to collect your prize." Sherlock felt humiliated. He didn't really want the Felix, but he swallowed hard. He couldn't let Moriarty have it, now could he? So he stepped forwards and took the vial from the teacher with an attempted smile before slipping back into the line of students. Not a single clap accompanied him, not a word of congratulations, just a few jealous sneers from the Slytherins. The Ravenclaw pocketed the vial in the inside of his robes without a word. He'd dump it in the lake tomorrow. _Luck_.  He could scoff at it. There was no such thing for Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my lovely readers! Just a quick reminder that though there will be canon-like scenes like this one in this fic, it won't be focusing so much on the tension rising with Voldemort. Also, the set up for the romance will be slowish. I can't wait to get there, though, but life's keeping me busy! Sorry c: Maybe an update this weekend? I'm not sure.
> 
> Anyways, thanks for reading this far, and thank you for the support! <3
> 
> Sarah


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John meet properly for the first time.

John watched the Ravenclaw pack his things with stiff and abrupt gestures, as if something had set him off balance, somehow. The boy looked strangely frustrated, stoic… perhaps even angry. John failed to understand why. He knew people who would kill for that tiny vial of Felix Felicis. He would have cried with joy, possibly, had he won the Felix, and would have already started to make plans with it; to save it up until next year so he could use it to pass his N.E.W.T.S (though Hermione would certainly disapprove), or perhaps use it to win his house eternal glory on the Quidditch pitch.

 

Sherlock stalked from the room first without acknowledging a single person, and pushed his way through the suffocating throng of students that barricaded the corridors of the school, the likes of which were nauseating. He could smell old parchment, sweat, his ears filled by the nonsensical buzz of chatter, shouting here and there, the scuffling of shoes against the concrete floor of the hallway. _Christ_. Sherlock didn’t think he could hold this out much longer.Cries of ‘freak!’ and ‘machine!’ followed him as he wound his way past people, students and teachers alike. He couldn’t take it anymore. He could feel himself cracking, and it was only- the first day. Where was Mycroft? Where was- the soundless sentence faded on his lips as he found himself beyond the crowd. _Oh. That’s true, that’s- that’s right._ Sherlock swallowed thickly, bowing his head as he made for the north tower. He knew he could find some peace there. Perhaps Bradbury would find him.

The Ravenclaw’s expression did nothing but darken in a foul mood once he found himself alone again. Bradbury hadn’t come, he was still frustrated about the Felix, and he felt more alone than ever, now.

“Avis,” Sherlock muttered, flicking his wand upwards. A stream of several yellow birds erupted from the tip of his wand. No bigger than his fist, they flew around him, and he allowed a small smile to grace his lips. Their company would have to be good enough for now. But the more he thought about their existence, their physicality, the more the smile faded. They were fake, they were not real. No blood coursed through them. They were the representation of all things false and specious. It disgusted him, but he could not bring himself to end their twittering just now with a counter-spell. He sat down and closed his eyes, trying to find the eye of the tornado that was his mind; a whirlwind, a cesspool of thoughts.

“That’s some nice birds you have there,” came a familiar sounding voice from the top of the stairs on which he was sat. There was the sound of a door closing. Feet shuffling. The echoing resonance of movement in an enclosed stone tower. Sherlock frowned, a grim expression settling upon his delicate features. Slowly, he turned around to come face-to-face with a grinning John Watson. “Hello,” the blond said chirpily. Sherlock thought he looked quite a lot like the birds that were fluttering behind him; with his golden- no, yellow hair, his nose, his tilted head as he smirked, eyes bright with curiosity.

It irritated him, this jovial aura that hung about the Gryffindor boy. A few awkward minutes passed between as Sherlock refused to speak. Instead, he watched the smirk falter slowly from John's face, took into account the nervous shuffling of his feet, the hopeful look fading from his navy eyes, eyes the colour of the blue and silver-striped tie that was tied neatly around Sherlock's neck. "Well... Uhm... Congratulations on the Felix matter."

Sherlock quirked a brow, going the shorter boy a sharp look ridden with dark sarcasm and humourless laughter. "Right." He said flatly.

"Most people would consider that a compliment," John answered with a smug, near-teasing smile. He lifted a hand up and watched as a bird settled on his finger. With thumb he stroked its feathery head lightly, making soft crooning noises at it. The creature remained impassive as it moved about slightly on the boy's finger. When Sherlock said nothing, he added, "are they your pets?"

"Of some sort," Sherlock answered dryly.

"Of some sort?" He mused. "I thought you weren't allowed birds at Hogwarts."

"No, we're not. Then again, I wouldn't expect you to be much of a rule breaker, since you really don't want to join the military and go by what your father thinks is best, hmm?" He said.

John looked up, his attention abandoning the bird entirely. "How- how could you possibly know that?"

Sherlock didn't reply.

"That's... really... cool, I guess. Whoa." He muttered.

The Ravenclaw appeared annoyed. That was it? Cool? He didn't get much better for his talents? He supposed a cool would do.

But then... "That's also really creepy," John murmured, stroking the bird agin, eyes lowered once more.

 _Creepy_. That plucked painfully away at Sherlock's heartstrings. _Creepy_? He hadn't been expecting it, but it any case, he wasn't going to just shrug it off lightly. That hurt more than a bland compliment.

Sherlock drew himself upright, and drew his wand, pointing it at John, who was still occupied with that stupid, khaki-coloured animal. “Oppugno," Sherlock said, his voice clear, loud, albeit a black hole of all emotion. The birds around his head formed an ugly halo around his brown locks. They flew at John like bullets, shattering against the stairs behind John. He looked up in shock. The bird in his hand, along with its comrades, exploded into minute feathers, which soon dissolved into the air.

"What the bloody hell was that for?" He demanded, sounding rather hurt. The door had already slammed shut.

John almost went after Sherlock; after a moment's worth of thinking he decided it probably wasn’t worth it. He’d been hoping they could possibly be friends. But if Sherlock was like this all the time, John decided he ought to stick closer to Ron and Hermione. It would be better that way. John ran his fingertips over the are where the bird had sat, and then, with a huff, departed, trying to clear his mind and forget what had happened.

But those turquoise eyes would not leave him in peace. They haunted his thoughts, and they would for quite some time.


End file.
